Ride a Cockhorse

by Raymond Kennedy

  Taken in its entirety, Mrs. Fitzgibbons was thrilled by the beauty of the operation. The elimination of Marshall Moriarty on an impulsive, whimsical basis had assuaged her nerves to an extent she would not have thought possible, and at the same time would introduce an element of fear in the staff. The De Marias and Anita Stebbins were genuinely superfluous types, incompetents with whom others could not readily identify. With the sudden dismissal of the beautiful man from the maintenance section, however, all that was changed. Now, no one would feel safe.

  “God, was he scared!” said Julie, her hand to her face, thrilling to Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s power.

  “Well, why shouldn’t he have been?” As she stepped importantly about the office, even swaggering a little, Mrs. Fitzgibbons couldn’t conceal her happiness. Her thinking was a trifle deranged, but she somehow knew it. “I don’t send for people in order to have a sociable chat. A dismissal from time to time makes the others sit up. They realize I mean business. That’s why I’m here. We’re not the bank we used to be. I’m fast-forwarding us,” she said.

  “It’s a very exciting bank,” said Julie. “The tellers are going like mad out there. The phones are ringing —”

  Mrs. Fitzgibbons acknowledged the point. “That’s my strength. If I didn’t generate new business, I wouldn’t be able to build the power and influence that I need to make the changes that I want. I go on the air, I put myself before the public, and in seventy-two hours, I have an organization in place that they’re talking about in Boston. And don’t think,” Mrs. Fitzgibbons added, “that I’m not going to smash up some banks around here.”

  “Like the Citizens Bank?”

  “That’s one.”

  “South Valley?”

  “Anyone,” she explained, “whose territory touches or infringes on mine is a candidate for Chapter XI. I’m not the Easter bunny. I’m going to obliterate them.” She paced purposefully to and fro as she spoke, her eyes dilated abstractedly. “I’ll make pretty little cooing noises to two or three of them, while I’m smashing the fourth, until there isn’t so much as a grease spot left to any one of them.”

  “Will you be firing others?” Julie asked hopefully.

  “Are you joking? There are people here who hate my insides. Who’d betray their own mothers just to get at me.”

  For ten minutes, Mrs. Fitzgibbons discoursed on the perfidiousness of her detractors and enemies, until even Julie herself was showing signs of exhaustion.

  “I have the willpower,” said Mrs. Fitzgibbons. “This broom sweeps clean. I’m going to fumigate the place. I’ve accomplished more in five or six days than all those jimokes were able to do in fourteen years.”

  If Mr. Zabac had not phoned for her to come upstairs, she might have vapored on for an hour. Nonetheless, on the way upstairs, she intuited trouble. She was relieved to find Mr. Zabac waiting for her with a smile on his face and coffee set out on his desk in her own two teacups.

  “My goodness,” Mr. Zabac spoke up in greeting, “how agitated you look, Mrs. Fitzgibbons.” He then addressed a remark to her that he had evidently rehearsed in advance. “I hope that you will learn the lesson stated long ago by Marshal Joffre of the French army. ‘The higher one is promoted, the easier the job becomes.’ ”

  Mrs. Fitzgibbons responded affably and moved her chair closer to his desk before sitting. “You were wonderful on television, Louis. Everyone says so. My hairdresser said you reminded him of Claude Rains. You made quite a hit.”

  Unable to hide his pleasure, Mr. Zabac gestured modestly. “Oh, I preferred just to say my few words,” he allowed politely, “and make way for you, Mrs. Fitzgibbons. I thought that appropriate. After all, the newsmen were here to see you. I thought you handled yourself with distinction.”

  “Thank you, Louis.”

  “You have a flair for it. You have a speaking gift, Mrs. Fitzgibbons. I never knew that.” As was his custom, the chairman expressed himself in measured accents. “You’ve been hiding your light.” He reached for his teaspoon. “If anyone had told me three months ago that you and I would be on television together, I would not have believed them.”

  “You deserve to be showcased. There’s going to be more of it. I intend to keep us in the news.”

  “Are you aware,” inquired he, “that we are having another magnificent day downstairs?”

  When Mrs. Fitzgibbons looked up in reply, she saw in his face for the first time a look of rapt attention. He was staring at her in a puzzled, inquiring way, as though trying to fathom the secret of the woman who had sprung to life like a wizard right beneath his feet. On his desk lay a copy of the Boston Globe, turned open to the page with her picture on it.

  “I don’t calculate the money at the windows. I’m here,” she said, “to publicize us, to generate excitement. The Shawmut Bank called this morning — Nate Solomon — to ask if we’d like to participate with a few other banks in funding an industrial park in Worcester.”

  “Worcester?”

  “A state-backed, low-risk arrangement that the bigwigs throw to the fat cats.”

  “But that’s fifty miles away.” Mr. Zabac was doubtful.

  “He saw my photo in the Globe. They’re tossing us some tenderloin, Louis.” Mrs. Fitzgibbons enjoyed expressing herself in this way, portraying a cynical, sophisticated demeanor.

  “We don’t do multimillion dollar deals,” Mr. Zabac cautioned her. “We’re prudent. We spread our risks. We keep ourselves in step with the health of the region.”

  Mrs. Fitzgibbons nodded wryly. “We’re not going to do anything rash. This isn’t the sort of prospect that I’d entrust to Leonard, or Felix, or Connie, or anyone else out there. I’ll look into it myself. Nate is sending a car for me in a few days.” Despite the warm, voluptuous feelings coursing through her body, Mrs. Fitzgibbons thought it proper to accustom the little man to his figurehead status; to the realities of her prerogatives. “If I like what I see, we’ll get our feet wet.”

  Seeing him wince at these words, she returned the subject to something brighter. “I’m not an egomaniac, Louis, but it’s obvious that the media want me. It’s a simple equation. The media give out the news. If they don’t have news, they have to make the news. That’s when they turn to people like me. Once it’s obvious that the public wants you, you have the media in your hands. I know what I’m talking about,” she added in a harsh voice, and showed him a challenging eye.

  “Well, I’m convinced you do.”

  “What do you suppose would have happened,” she went on, while crossing her legs and balancing her teacup delicately on her knee, “if they had interviewed someone like Neil Hooton instead of me? Can’t you just picture it? Mumbling gobbledygook under his breath about transportation stocks and hedges against inflation, while the market is coming down around his ears.” She threw her head back and laughed gaily.

  “Now, now,” said Mr. Zabac.

  “We’d have had a run on the bank.”

  “Mr. Hooton is not to blame for the crack in stock prices.”

  “The man is yellow.” Mrs. Fitzgibbons showed the chairman a look of blushing contempt for her adversary. The disdain was so withering that the chairman chose not to object. “Why,” she said, “he doesn’t know word one about Wall Street. Do you honestly believe that he understands what’s happening? He’s a little lamb!” Again, Mrs. Fitzgibbons blushed and revealed discomfort at having to discuss the merits of a fool.

  “Many investors,” Mr. Zabac reminded her softly, “were caught unawares. The market fell five hundred points. We must be fair.”

  “The man sold out at the bottom. And it’s going to get worse. The market will rally, and he’ll be left with his pants down.”

  Mr. Zabac nodded unhappily. “It’s rallying now.”

  “I have to take the heat!” she said arrogantly. “I’ll have to answer for him, you know.”

  Mr. Zabac realized that she had not heard his remark. In her brief, two-day tenure as chief executive officer, her temper had alrea
dy become something to be avoided or appeased. Like many others, Mr. Zabac chose not to upset her. When she saw the way he was trying to mollify her, Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s nipples actually tingled. The thought of suddenly pulling Mr. Zabac out of his chair and throwing him down onto the floor set her smiling. The daylight pouring in through the big window illuminated her features in a compelling manner.

  “Well,” the chairman faltered, “he might have been a little cowed by events yesterday, Mrs. Fitzgibbons. I wouldn’t gainsay you on that point.”

  To Mr. Zabac’s surprise, she burst out laughing. Her eyes were fixed steadily upon him. She was joyous at the little gentleman’s diplomacy. “Louis, you’re the end!” Her laughter filled the room. “If you aren’t the living picture of the successful banker. I swear, you should be in the movies!” Her voice dripped with affectionate sarcasm, as she lifted her cup of coffee to her lips. “I can understand why your employees love you too much. You have a good word for everyone. You wouldn’t harm a fly. Now,” she said, “I can see why you’ve given me my head. You want someone who’ll get the job done.”

  “You are wrong, Mrs. Fitzgibbons.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you don’t know it,” she countered.

  “Believe me, it was not my intention, Mrs. Fitzgibbons, that you should effect any dramatic changes that I would not willingly carry out myself.”

  “Don’t agitate yourself,” she teased him, and widened her eyes playfully. “Nobody is going to be taken out to the cloakroom! I’m not going to spank anyone.”

  “The reason I asked you up here,” Mr. Zabac continued, “concerns a complaint I’ve received from a rival institution.” He held up his small hands. “I’m not chastising you. We’re on the same side, Mrs. Fitzgibbons. But Mr. Curtin Schreffler, the president of Citizens, found some of your remarks provocative.”

  “Did he?” she cried. She flushed angrily.

  “I only tell you,” Mr. Zabac was quick to placate her, “as it’s my duty to apprise you of such information as it comes to hand. If persons of consequence out there take offense over your views, or the way you utter them, I feel it’s wise to inform you.”

  Mrs. Fitzgibbons had turned and was staring intensely out the big semicircular window at the city hall. “I’m going to grind him into a powder,” she swore quietly.

  At these words, a thorn of fear entered Mr. Zabac’s heart. His face showed it. Mrs. Fitzgibbons had begun to scare him.

  “I’ll hang him up by his heels,” she said. She pictured in her mind the man in question. “Here we have an Ivy League fancy Dan, who dresses like a French gigolo, who went away to school to avoid being contaminated by the rest of us, whose father died of some foul, unspecified disease and left him an entire bank to get off on, and he finds me objectionable.” Mrs. Fitzgibbons truly could not abide criticism these days. “I’ll pin him to the wall. I’ll bankrupt him. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  When Mrs. Fitzgibbons stood up to leave, Mr. Zabac followed her to the door. He thanked her for coming. She didn’t answer him. At the top of the stairs, however, the sight of the big bank sprawled beneath her, with its pretty geometric arrangement of yellow-shaded lamps and dark, mottled columns, restored her sense of well-being. Descending the steps, her heart beat proudly, as she contemplated the view of scores of workers toiling diligently at their tasks. Felix Hohenberger kept his head down when she went past his desk. Mrs. Fitzgibbons liked that, the tacit understanding that his behavior toward her bore directly upon the economic welfare of his family. Not a second later, Laura Stathis, a girl from payroll, blanched in fear at the sight of Mrs. Fitzgibbons coming straight toward her, turned on a dime, and hurried away in the opposite direction. Such, Mrs. Fitzgibbons concluded, were the salutary effects of an administration that was not incapable of making up its mind.

  TEN

  It was a case of the wish made real. When Mrs. Fitzgibbons came darting out of the bank that afternoon, full of confidence in her ability to work her will upon others, to mold and shape events according to a plan that was no more complicated than telling other people what to do, her quick string of achievements was already producing real shock waves in the banking community. Not ten streets away, an emergency meeting was in session on the third floor of the South Valley Bank. In all of its seventy-seven years of doing business, a span of time that had included some very trying years, the South Valley had never experienced anything on record as puzzling as what had happened these past two days. Deposit dollars were being withdrawn at an alarming rate.

  That morning, when Mrs. Fitzgibbons had mentioned to Bruce her intention to play some golf this afternoon with Terry (her “boyfriend”), Bruce offered her the use of Matthew’s Buick. The car was to be parked at the curb, with the keys over the visor. However, when Mrs. Fitzgibbons came out onto Maple Street, she found Matthew himself standing on the tree belt by his car. In fact, the instant he spotted her, he turned and opened the back door for her. Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s reaction to this gracious touch illustrated the ease with which she was able to accommodate the solicitude of lesser beings. “Why, thank you, Matthew. What a wonderful surprise,” she exclaimed, as she swept past him and entered the rear of the car. “I’m going to the country club.”

  As Matthew guided his automobile through the late-afternoon traffic, Mrs. Fitzgibbons took notice of the spotless interior of the car, with its plush upholstery and freshly vacuumed carpet. She sat back with her coat open, her legs crossed, and a severe but not angry look on her face. Stopped briefly for the traffic light at Essex Street, she was completely unmindful of the fact that they were halted directly in front of the South Valley Bank, nor had she a clue that an emergency meeting was convened upstairs, in which her name was being repeated with dismaying frequency.

  While the officers and directors of the South Valley Bank were careful that afternoon not to invoke the language of panic, the seriousness of the matter did inspire some telling phrases. No one at the conference table demurred, for example, when William Daviau, one of the directors, characterized what was happening downstairs as “a temporary hemorrhaging of funds.” Nor would the leadership of other neighboring banks have objected to it. These were financial institutions of a size that could not withstand such an onslaught. In truth, the flight of funds was taking place on a near-ruinous scale. With nothing more to explain her advent than a single full-page newspaper article and seven minutes on the evening news, Mrs. Fitzgibbons had befallen these little sister institutions like an early winter storm.

  As in all such developments, change worked a reciprocal effect upon its agent. That is to say, Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s triumphs not only left her feeling successively more important, and did nothing to slake her thirst for further victories, but caused her to depreciate all other people at a proportionate rate. She had never been the sort of human being to deprecate a person for living in conditions that they could not overcome, especially a youngster of eighteen, but when Matthew Dean stopped the car outside Terence Sugrue’s house on the corner of Nonotuck and Spring, and Mrs. Fitzgibbons winced at the sight of the derelict clapboard structure (with a rusted refrigerator parked on the front porch and wild vines and shrubberies running riot everywhere), her subsequent view of the Sugrue boy was severely abbreviated. She saw him as a vain, “back street” sort of boy, someone to be good-timed and discarded at her convenience.

  This view was strengthened for her by the way the young drum major looked about in awe at the inside of Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s chauffeured Buick. He turned pink with embarrassment at the luxurious setting, not to mention the look of Mrs. Fitzgibbons sitting in the opposite corner with her legs crossed.

  “Matthew, forget about the country club,” she said. “Drive me up to Jarvis Avenue.”

  “Right you are,” he said.

  Terry was sitting on the edge of the seat, blushing uncomfortably at the way Mrs. Fitzgibbons ordered the man behind the wheel to comply with her desires. He blushed, too, at the overtly concupiscent look that she tur
ned upon him, examining him up and down.

  “We’ll drive around some of the back roads up there and have a little talk,” she said to Terry. She was staring at him now with open sensuality, but without having moved a muscle. “The joy of being young,” she said, “is that you can butter up people without annihilating your self-respect.”

  For the most part, Terry was perplexed by her words. Matthew stole looks at the two of them in the rearview mirror, while driving along slowly under the twilit trees.

  Downtown at the South Valley Bank, as the hour of dusk drew a gray light through the city streets, Mr. William Daviau was put through on the telephone to Alita Lindberg, the publisher of the local newspaper. Mrs. Lindberg’s replies to the bank director’s complaints about her coverage of Mrs. Fitzgibbons in the Saturday issue of the Telegram were obviously rehearsed, a certain indication that he was not the first banking official to lodge a grievance that day. However, the earnestness in Mrs. Lindberg’s prepared responses took account of the obvious gravity of the situation. According to Mr. Daviau, who was very angry, the Ireland Parish Telegram was responsible for what he elegantly termed “an increasing destabilization of the local economy.”

  Alita Lindberg reminded him that on the occasion of South Valley’s seventy-fifth anniversary, in the summer of 1985, the Telegram had given the South Valley Bank an enormous three-page spread, including photographs of the original limestone bank building, its founders and present officers, and several shots of its current facility and branch locations. Mr. Daviau was not appeased.

  “I don’t think you realize what you’ve done. You people have created a situation that must be rectified. You’ve inflicted some serious damage out here.”